Tintin in Italy
by Bianca Castafarina
Summary: Tintin/Skut and Tintin/Haddock SLASH.     Summer 2011: Tintin and the Captain are invited to spend a vacation in Florence, Italy. This story contains a love triangle, Piotr Skut, naive!Tintin, ancient drugs, and plenty of Tuscan food.  Cancelled
1. Chapter 1

_._

_Fratelli d'Italia!_  
><em>L'Italia s'è desta!<em>  
><em>Dell'elmo di Scipio<em>  
><em>S'è cinta la testa!<em>  
><em>Dov'è la vittoria?<em>  
><em>Le porga la chioma.<em>  
><em>Che schiava di Roma<em>  
><em>Iddio la creò.<em>

1.

Tuscany

Summer 2011

When the Ryanair passenger plane hit the landing strip with a loud _thump_ and finally came to a stop, there was a cheerful sound of applause from the speakers, and several people actually clapped hands.

I was glad the whole journey had been uncomplicated so far. After all, we weren't here for an adventure, but for a holiday. Me, Captain Haddock and Snowy had been invited to Firenze – or Florence, as it was called in French and English – by someone we hadn't heard from in a long time: Piotr Skut, the Estonian pilote, who still worked for the eccentric billionaire Laszlo Carreidas. Piotr had told me that the whole of Italy was partying really hard at the moment - it was the 150th anniversary of the Italian independence, and celebrations were everywhere. Since his boss Carreidas was in Firenze at the moment, involved in some obscure business with old artworks, this was the place Piotr invited us to. He would be waiting there and even have a vacation apartment in the historical town center reserved for us. „So you can celebrate here with us!" he said. „Don't worry, Mr Carreidas will pay for everything!"

That surprised me, because Carreidas was known to be stingy. But perhaps that had changed as a consequence of the recent poison incident. It had happened one year ago: Someone had tried to kill the billionaire with poison, and Carreidas had barely survived. Even now he was still physically weak, but recovering. His mental health seemed unaffected, though he was still paranoid as usual. Maybe because of his brush with death he'd suddenly realized he wouldn't be around forever and should actually use his money.

From the cozy Pisa Airport (really, there was no other word for it – this was one of the smallest and coziest airports I'd ever been to) we boarded a Trenitalia train to Firenze Central Station, the_ Stazione __Centrale __Santa __Maria__ Novella._We could have bought a ticket for the comfortable shuttle bus, but the train ticket prices were unbeatable.

The towns had cute names, too, at the stations we passed: _Lastra__ a__ Signa. __Montelupo __Fiorentino.__ Empoli.__ Castelfiorentino. __Certaldo. __Poggibonsi. __Pontedera._ As the train casually rolled through quiet, hilly Tuscan landscapes with cypress trees, adorable villages with red-roofed houses and the occasional medieval ruin, I thought it was time to get a serious matter off my heart.

„Captain", I said, „there's something I haven't told you yet."

Still grumpy because he hadn't been allowed to smoke the pipe on the train, he just gave me a blank look.

„It's quite... embarassing, actually."

He raised an eyebrow. „Go on, you know you can tell me."

„I don't speak Italian. Not a single word."

Now Captain Haddock raised both eyebrows. „Thundering typhoons!" he exclaimed. „But... Tintin? How is that possible? I thought you were... well, Tintin!"

„Yes, yes, yes", I said. After all, I'd always known every single language of every country I'd ever been too. Italian was one of the few exceptions, along with Tagalog, Japanese and Malay. This was very untypical for me. But Piotr Skut had assured me he knew enough Italian to get along and would translate things for us.

At least I wasn't the only one being untypical here: Snowy, who had curled up at my feet, sleeping despite the rattling of the train, still possessed a distinctly pastel-pink hue. That had been the work of Abdallah. The little brat had considered it hilarious to dye Snowy bright pink when he'd stayed at Marlinspike a few weeks ago. Snowy didn't find it hilarious, and neither did I. After much washing and bleaching, the pink wasn't entirely gone yet. The dog still drew a lot of finger-pointing and amused giggles. At the airport, a small kid had seen him and gleefully exclaimed, „_Mamma, __ecco __il __cagnolino __gay!__"_

I listened to a Mozart opera on my iPod – _Mitridate, __re__ di __Ponto._The Italian made no sense to me but it still sounded beautiful. After almost an hour, we finally arrived in Firenze. The Stazione Centrale was a busy place, and according to Google Maps it should take us only fifteen minutes of walking to our B&B inn in Via dei Cimatori. In reality it took closer to thirty minutes because the narrow sidewalks were chock-full with pedestrians, and the streets were clogged with small cars and motorbikes. There was a lot of horn-honking, shouting and screeching that only subsided when we left the main roads, finding ourselves in entirely pedestrian streets. The entire historical town center, as Piotr had told us, was a _zona __traffico __limitato_ – or ZTL – where only cars with a special permit were allowed to enter. Tourists often didn't know this, and were charged with a hefty fine if their permitless cars happened to cross the sacred ZTL border.

I marvelled at the number of restaurants and ice cream places but there wasn't time for that now. We were invited for dinner with Piotr later. I wondered where supermarkets were – so far I hadn't seen one yet. A number of tired-eyed but smiling street merchants shoved their merchandise into our faces. „_Vu'comprar?_"  
>Captain Haddock eventually lost patience and chased one of them away with a cannonfire of his choicest vocabulary; and we walked faster, clumsily dragging our heavy suitcases over centuries-old cobblestone. In a wide road with many upscale stores and boutiques, the Via dei Calzaiuoli, there were even more street merchants, but as soon as a couple of <em>carabinieri<em> approached, the vendors picked up their fake brand-name merchandise in large, white sheets which they carried slung over their shoulders, and ran into hiding. When the _carabinieri_ were gone, the vendors emerged again and arranged the items for sale on the white sheets on the ground.

The sun was scorching. Though not quite as hot as in the desert, it must have been at least 30 degrees Celsius. Snowy with his pastel-pink fur attracted a lot of attention. Groups of Japanese tourists (each of the women complete with hat, umbrella and sunglasses to stay fashionably pale) were especially taken by Snowy's cute looks and snapped what felt like a hundred photos of him with their Smartphones and digital cameras as we walked by. I wondered if he would become a new internet meme. A „pink loldog" or something like that.

There were even Southern Americans; at least that was what I thought them to be at first. A girl with braids, wearing clogs and something that looked similar to a Guatemalan dress, walked towards me - I didn't understand what she wanted, but when she showed a gap-toothed smile and pulled out a photo of little kids, it seemed obvious she wanted money. I gave her an Euro coin and we continued walking. „I didn't know there were Latino people here", I said to the Captain. „South America is so far away! Aren't most immigrants in Italy from Northern Africa and South Eastern Europe?"

„What?" The Captain gave me a surprised look. „She wasn't from America! That was a gypsy."

Later I would learn that the gypsies – called the Romany people, or _rom_ in Italian – were a socially disadvantaged and especially poor group of immigrants here in Italy. Apparently the government made an effort to keep them segregated in special ghettoes and camps with intolerable living conditions (last winter, several people had frozen to death) that were occasionally cleared out and the inhabitants chased away, as it happened only a month ago in Quaracchi, a slum in the nearby town of Sesto Fiorentino. Earlier this year, the same _favela_ had been ravaged by a fire.

Our holiday apartment in Via dei Cimatori was small – we shared a bedroom – but very comfortable, clean and modern. The proprietor was a short, balding friendly man who spoke broken English and proudly showed us the equally small but well-stocked kitchen that had everything we needed for breakfast, then he proceeded to complain loudly about Silvio Berlusconi and his _bunga__ bunga _parties, and the Italian national debt, and the incompetence of the government in general; but then he apologized, saying we should just focus on the nice things in Italy. It was the country's 150th birthday, after all!

Tired from the journey, I threw myself onto my bed. It was soft and smelled of lavender. The Captain lit his pipe and began unpacking his suitcase. At least half the space in it was taken up by whisky bottles – he'd heard a rumour that Loch Lomond was hard to find here.

„Ah, finally a real vacation!" Haddock said, relaxing in an armchair and smoking the pipe. „It's quite a beautiful town, if you don't mind the crowds... But, hey, Tintin! Are you asleep, lad?"

I lifted my head from the bed, looking at him. „Not yet."

He gave me a strict look. „I mean _vacation_. No adventures this time, okay? Will you promise me?"

„Sure", I said, puzzled. „No adventures."

_._

_._

_._

_Stringiàmci a coórte,  
>Siam pronti alla morte!<br>Siam pronti alla morte!  
>L'Italia chiamò<br>Sì!_

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: _

1) I took some liberties with the train stations, just for fun. Some of these aren't between Firenze and Pisa, but between Firenze and Siena.

2) The lyrics on top and bottom of the chapters are from the Italian national anthem – the Song of the Italians or _L'Inno __di __Mameli_, written in 1847.

TRANSLATIONS:

_Mamma, __ecco __il __cagnolino __gay!__ - _Mom, look, there's a gay little dog!  
>„<em>Vu'comprar?<em>" - _Vuoi__ comprare?_ - Want to buy?


	2. Chapter 2

_._  
><em>.<em>  
><em>Noi siamo da secoli<em>  
><em>Calpesti, derisi,<em>  
><em>Perché non siam popolo,<em>  
><em>Perché siam divisi.<em>  
><em>Raccolgaci un'unica<em>  
><em>Bandiera, una speme:<em>  
><em>Di fonderci insieme<em>  
><em>Già l'ora suonò. <em>

2.

It was 19:30 and the sun had just started to set. We had been invited to dinner at a very small corner-restaurant in the pedestrian street Borgo La Croce – it was called _Trattoria __Il__ Giova_. According to our travel guide, the most famous upscale restaurant in town, _Il__ Cibreo_, was just a few meters away, which elicited a comment from Haddock: „Blistering barnacles! I didn't know Mr Carreidas was _that_ stingy."

I guessed the Captain hadn't forgiven Laszlo Carreidas yet for that one time in Sondonesia, when he'd almost shoved the Captain into a pool of lava.

Piotr Skut awaited us at the _trattoria_. To my surprise, he was alone – there was no eccentric billionaire with him. He hugged us both, embracing me a little longer than necessary. „Good to see you!" he exclaimed. I noted that he looked the same as always - tall and lean, stylish blonde hair, and the conspicuous eyepatch. I wondered what could possibly have happened to his eye.

We made small talk and sat down at a table, and I couldn't help but notice how tiny this restaurant was. One couldn't get up from the chair without crashing into someone else's chair or table.

„I'll be frank with you", Piotr Skut said as we read the menu, „and tell you what Mr Carreidas has invited you here for. He's hoping you would help him with something."

Haddock stared at him as if he'd asked us to participate in drug smuggling or, worse, visiting a Castafiore concert.

Piotr lifted up his hands. „Of course my boss isn't making any demands. He's simply asking for your help. You can refuse and enjoy your holiday. But it's not illegal, and a most interesting matter so I'm sure you'll at least want to hear it."

„We're just tourists here", I said. „No adventures. I promised him." I winked at Haddock. „But do tell us, Piotr. As a reporter, I can't resist my curiosity."

A waitress came and took our orders - I chose a _primo__ piatto_ of ravioli in butter-saffron sauce with sage, and a _secondo__ piatto_ of roast lamb chops with grilled vegetables - then Piotr told us about his boss' plans. „As you know, he has many enemies, and last year he barely survived an assassination attempt with poison. Recently he's gotten obsessed with his life and health, and superstitious as he is, he believes into an old legend according to which there is an all-powerful antidote, invented in ancient times."

„Now it's getting interesting", I said. By 'interesting', of course, I meant 'funny', but I was too polite to say so.

Piotr grinned at me. „Of course it's just a legend. I don't believe in this bullshit either. Modern gurus and ancient gurus, it's all the same. Anyway, this omnipotent antidote is called Theriac or Mithridatium. It was formulated in Greece in the 1st century, and was known even in India and China. But the legend says it was invented about a hundred years earlier by King Mithridates VI of Pontus, from whom it received its name."

The waitress brought a bottle of deep red Chianti wine with the black rooster quality seal featuring prominently on the bottleneck; and Piotr did the whole sniffing-and-tasting ritual before approving the bottle. Then he continued: „Mr Carreidas is obsessed with finding this so-called Mithridatium. He claims that some divine spirit wants him to take this stuff so he'll be immune against all poisons from then on. Yes, he really believes that, even though we've consulted many experts, and they all say there's no such thing as an omnipotent antidote that counteracts _every_ poison."

I nodded, well knowing that belief was often stronger than observable fact. The waitress arrived with our _primi_, and I marveled at how great the food tasted. „And what does Mr Carreidas wants our help for?"

„Here's the cool part." Piotr leaned closer to me, and instantly, so did Captain Haddock. „Several formulae and samples of Mithridatium, or Theriac, have existed throughout history. The problem is that nobody knows the correct formula any more. Apparently it is lost."

Now I couldn't resist throwing in a joke. „And he believes to find it stashed away at Marlinspike Hall, or what?"

„No, not the formula", Piotr replied with a dead serious face. „But an actual sample."

I looked at him, interrupting my eating for several seconds, then Captain Haddock burst into laughter. „Ha ha ha ha! An omnipotent antidote stashed in my attic by some eccentric hobby alchimist ancestor, right? Ha, ha, ha, Piotr, this is a good one! The mystery chase for the mystery substance!... He fancies himself an Indiana Jones, doesn't he? Ha ha ha! This is just excellent!"

The trattoria had become quiet – Haddock was laughing so loudly that several guests were staring at us. Quickly he caught himself and stopped, focusing on his glass of wine.

Piotr was grinning widely. „Yes, I also find the whole story very amusing", he said, eating a bite of the veal on his plate. „Ah, Tintin, this _vitello_ is quite delicious, want to try some?"

Before I could respond, he'd already put a piece on his fork and shoved it towards my mouth. „Here, try some. It's marvellous. One of the reasons why this is my favorite _trattoria_ in town." He winked. I was curious, and without much thought I ate the bite from his fork. Indeed, these people knew how to cook! „Yes, it's really good."

Piotr didn't offer a bite to the Captain but continued with his story. „Yes, Mr Carreidas believes there's an actual bottle of Mithridatium somewhere at Marlinspike Hall, and it's supposed to be the last _real_ one in existence. In his _De__ Re__ Medicina_, the Roman doctor Celsus writes that Theriac becomes stronger the longer it has aged, so that even less is necessary to achieve the effect. According to that logic, the substance that's supposedly at Marlinspike is the most powerful antidote in existence." He took a sip of wine. „If you're superstitious."

I had to laugh as well. „Indeed...!" We all knew Mr Carreidas was eccentric, but this was quite new. „But... why does he think _we_ have that stuff? Why would it be at _Marlinspike_? How does that make sense?" I had never even heard of it until now!

„Yes, it's very likely to be at Marlinspike", Piotr said. „Among the estate of your ancestor, Sir Francis of Hadoque. According to the research my boss has done, Sir Francis was sent on a mission to France in 1675 to steal the stuff from the French king. He must have succeeded because he returned to England with a bottle of Mithridatium. But King Charles wasn't satisfied. He claimed that Francis had brought him the wrong sample, and that he'd actually kept the real Mithridatium for himself. Technically it would have been treason. But the king couldn't find proof of anything, and instead of arresting Sir Hadoque, he just sent him far away on a trading vessel to Jamaica. The story goes that in the several months while Sir Francis of Hadoque was at sea, King Charles had all of Hadoque's possessions and houses searched: Bud o'the Briar Castle in England, Marlinspike Hall in Brussels, Neglesaks Mansion in Denmark, and Villa Bimsstein in Northern Germany."

The king really had been convinced that Francis must have hidden Theriac from him, but the story sounded absurd. If King Charles hadn't been able to find Theriac in the 17th century, how the hell would anyone think we could find it now?

„So Francis Hadoque was at sea on the _Unicorn_ – you know the story from then on. Now, what Mr Carreidas wants is to have a look at the documents that Hadoque left behind. At the entire estate, actually. He hopes to find it there, or at least a hint, or more information."

It was funny, but Captain Haddock didn't laugh. „What? That paranoid gaga bashi-bazouk wants to search_ my __home_?"

„Well, he just-"

„Tell the son of a cucumber that no one searches my Marlinspike Hall! Thundering typhoons, I love a good story, but this isn't only going too far, but complete and utter bullshit!" He was getting loud, and I made some gestures to tell him to calm down, before people would stare again.

„It's all right, it's all right", Piotr said. „It's not my idea, I'm just telling you what my boss wants. But as mentioned, you can refuse. This vacation is a gift for you. Of course, if you cooperate with him, your efforts would be highly rewarded, even if we don't find Mithridatium. And I'm talking serious money. My boss is _obsessed_ with Theriac. Like a fanboy with his favorite video game."

„Ah, but no, thank you." I smiled and finished my meal. „We don't need money, and certainly not another adventure... But do tell Mr Carreidas we're enjoying the vacation very much and would like to thank him for it."

By inviting us here, Laszlo Carreidas wanted to make us feel at least a little indebted so we'd be more likely to accept his proposal. But I knew that trick, like most other psycho tricks. We weren't obliged to him in any way.

After we finished our meal and Piotr paid the bill, it had already gotten dark outside. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep (our inn was at least fifteen walking minutes away), but Piotr insisted on showing us the very best _gelateria_ in town. „There's a lot of cheap quality ice-cream here being sold to tourists at ripoff prices", he said. „But there's good stuff too that's truly worth it!"

He took us to _Badiani_, a family-owned _gelateria_ and _pasticceria_-plus-café at the corner of Via Nino Bixio and Viale dei Mille. It was outside the old town center: streets here were wide enough to accomodate several car lanes, there were parking spaces, no tourists, and the houses had newer, more polished facades. There even were modern apartment houses – not quite as pretty as the older ones, but functional and in good shape. We reached _Badiani_ in one of the small orange city buses since walking there would have taken at least twenty-five minutes and we were too full and tired for that.

To my great surprise, the gelato was indeed the best I'd ever tasted. Piotr ordered _una__ coppetta __per __tre __euro_ for me and one for the Captain, and I chose three flavors that seemed interesting – _cioccolato __fondente, __tiramisú_, and _frutti __di __bosco__ – _dark chocolate, Tiramisu and mixed berries. They tasted intensely authentic; especially the chocolate flavor – it didn't taste faintly of cocoa like most other chocolate ice cream, but it was very dark, dense stuff that tasted like actual, creamy dark chocolate that had somehow been transformed into _gelato_. In fact, it was even more flavorful than some chocolate brands. Even Captain Haddock liked this ice cream, although he usually wasn't fond of sweets. (His gelato cup was dominated by creamy, pastel-yellow _Malaga_, heavily flavored with rum)

Maybe I was imagining things, but Piotr Skut seemed to be very focused on me, being overly friendly, spoon-feeding me his ice cream („This tastes awesome, you gotta try it. C'mon, just one taste, it's truly amazing!"), and buying me a glass of water. Well, if he thought he could change my mind about this silly Mithridatium antidote subject, he was mistaken. I wouldn't help Carreidas with this senseless quest.

I must have been sleepy, because suddenly a glob of ice cream dropped from my little plastic spoon right onto my shirt, and instantly Piotr leaned towards me, wiping the front of my shirt with a paper napkin.

„Hey, let me do that!" Haddock said, and with another napkin began to clean the ice-cream from my shirt while simultaneously trying to push Piotr away.

„It's all right!" I said, getting annoyed. I wasn't a child any more, they didn't have to make such a fuss!

„Take your hands away, Skut", Haddock said, pulling at my shirt. „I'll clean this up." There weren't many customers at _Badiani_ at this late hour, but the few ones here were starting to look at us.

„Hey, Archibald", Piotr said. „I'm just being helpful here. What's the matter with you?"

They had wiped off the ice cream from my shirt, but were still both leaning towards me, one guy from each side; and they were now throwing aggressive glances at each other.

„Stop it, now!" I said sternly, putting down my spoon. „I'm full, let's go home." I put a hand on each Haddock's and Piotr's shoulder, gently pushing them apart, and giving each a bright smile. „C'mon, let's go."

_._

_._

_._

_Stringiàmci a coórte,  
>Siam pronti alla morte!<br>Siam pronti alla morte!  
>L'Italia chiamò<br>Sì!_

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
>The lyrics on top and bottom of the chapters are from the Italian national anthem – the Song of the Italians or <em>L'Inno<em>_ di __Mameli_.

TRANSLATIONS:  
><em>una <em>_coppetta__ per__ tre __euro_ – a cup for 3€  
><em>primo<em> and _secondo__ piatto_ – first and second course


	3. Chapter 3

_._  
><em>.<em>  
><em>Uniamoci, amiamoci,<em>  
><em>L'unione e l'amore<em>  
><em>Rivelano ai popoli<em>  
><em>Le vie del Signore.<em>  
><em>Giuriamo far libero<em>  
><em>Il suolo natio:<em>  
><em>Uniti, per Dio,<em>  
><em>Chi vincer ci può? <em>

3.

It was just before midnight when we arrived back at our B&B hotel in Via dei Cimatori. I was brushing my teeth when I noticed that Captain Haddock had barely talked since we had finished dinner, and I had assumed he was very tired. But now he still seemed quite awake, watching me as I took off my clothes and changed into my summer pajama.

„What's the matter, Captain?" I asked.

„Well... I think you should watch out for Piotr Skut."

I laughed. „It's all right, Captain! I'm not naive, I can tell he's a real charmer. Probably very popular with the ladies. But don't worry, he's not changing my mind about anything. We'll just have a nice vacation here, and then we'll return home."

„That's not what I mean, Tintin! … Didn't you notice? That guy... he was all over you!"

I stared at the Captain. What did he mean? Sure, Piotr had been acting really comradely, but surely not overtly affectionate? Or had I missed something?

He sighed. „You _are_ naive, Tintin."

I was offended. „What's that supposed to mean?"

„Um... Well, perhaps not. Sorry, lad, I didn't mean to be mothering. Let's just go to sleep. Good night!"

„... Good night, Captain", I said, still confused.

_._

_._

.

The next day, we did what all good tourists do: explore the town of Firenze. With Piotr Skut as our city guide, we didn't need to carry a map with us and could walk faster than other tourists.

We were standing in the Piazza del Duomo, admiring the huge Renaissance cathedral with its distinctive red cupola roof that had been constructed by the master architect Filippo Brunelleschi in the 1430s. A tunderstorm seemed to be near – black clouds were covering the sky like burnt cotton, the street portrait artists were disassembling their easels and packing their materials, and we hurried along the Via dei Calzaiuoli to see one more church, that of Orsanmichele, before rain poured down. If we continued along this street, Piotr said, we'd arrive in the Piazza della Signoria, and always going straight ahead, we'd reach the famous Uffizi gallery with its infamous queues, and then the Arno river.

When we arrived at Orsanmichele it started to rain. A speeding bicycle rider dashed closely past me, and would have hit me if Piotr hadn't pulled me out of the way at the last minute. „You all right?" he asked, his hand resting gently on my arm. „Bicyclists here are suicidal. Gotta watch out for them."

Captain Haddock put one arm around me, pulling me away from Piotr. „Let's go see the church."

Orsanmichele was lavishly decorated on the inside and displayed several medieval-era paintings. It had been a market hall before being converted into a church, so it was square-shaped, without the usual long corridor. A group of teenage boys looked at the paintings of saints on the ceiling, then they made jokes about the giant iron rings hanging in the ceiling, each of which was weirdly placed exactly in the crotch of one saint.

The rain was over soon and we continued our walk. I saw various fashion stores specialising in sweaters, neckties, socks or lingerie, cafés, leather goods stores, restaurants, and money exchanges. The Piazza della Signoria was crowded with people, and dominated by the huge Palazzo Vecchio, the old town hall. Instantly I was reminded of the movie _Hannibal_, where Hannibal Lecter hanged a guy from that very balcony of this same palazzo while a group of tourists watched.

Next to the Palazzo Vecchio stood a roofed terrace, the so-called Loggia dei Lanzi, where at least a dozen statues were standing. Only last year, so Piotr told us, there had been a big fuss about someone breaking off a finger of some statue here. It had been all over the local news. The finger was found, the culprit wasn't. For a town that seemed not to care about the amounts of graffitti covering its ancient walls, nor about the numerous samples of dog poop on the narrow sidewalks, it seemed strange to me how much they cared about this barely noticeable vandalism of a public statue. "People are guessing it was some drunken American student. Young people from the USA come here each year, and since the legal drinking age is lower here, they take advantage of it and binge on booze. Streets tend to get so loud after midnight that new laws have been passed prohibiting the sale of alcohol after a certain hour. But still..." Piotr shrugged, "...it doesn't really help. They're still here, loud and drunk as always. ... Uncivilized Americans", he added with a whisper.

There was a fountain with a large white marble statue of an ocean god in the middle – the Neptune sculpture by 16th century artist Bartolommeo Ammannati. „The locals call him _Il__ Biancone_", Piotr explained, „the Big White Thing. People like to make fun of it. Even Michelangelo made fun of the sculptor, Ammannati, for ruining such a beautiful piece of white marble! In verse, of course - Michelangelo was also a poet."

_'Ammannato, Ammannato,  
>Che bel marmo hai rovinato!'<em>

Close to that fountain we saw a circle sign on the ground, marking the spot where a certain Girolamo Savonarola had been executed in 1498. „He was something like a Taliban leader of his day", Piotr told us. „A crazy Dominican monk stuck in the Middle Ages. He wanted to turn Firenze into a theocracy, and acted against the Pope in doing so. So he was executed for heresy. The weird thing is, there's even a statue of that guy in a piazza of the same name, in this very town! Isn't it strange that this town would dedicate monuments to a religious fanatic?"

Next on the sightseeing schedule was an original Renaissance palazzo, furnished and decorated like in the 16th century – the Palazzo Davanzati, only a two-minute walk from here. We had to hurry since it closed around noon. Afterwards we ate lunch at a small _pizzeria_ called Pizza Man in Via dell'Agnolo, which Piotr claimed made the best pizza in town. Indeed the food was excellent; he truly knew his way around here. Afterwards, we skipped the Uffizi gallery which he said was overrated and too crowded, and headed for the Galleria Palatina, another museum of paintings in the Palazzo Pitti. There, in restored old royal apartments the walls were full of paintings, from top to bottom. But the best part (I wasn't an art lover) came after that: the museum _La__ Specola_, further behind the Pitti Palazzo. A secret jewel that tourists usually missed.

My feet hurt from all the walking and Captain Haddock was complaining about the sun, but _La Specola_, the Museum of Natural History, was like nothing I had ever seen. There were hundreds, if not perhaps a thousand, specimens of stuffed, pickled, or otherwise preserved animals: mammals, insects, mollusks, reptiles, fish, and birds. Most of these were older than a hundred years; the oldest specimen being a stuffed hippopotamus from the 18th century. As far as I could see through the glass, it wasn't in good shape – the thick papery skin had cracks, and a lot of straw peeked out in various places. „It lived in the Boboli gardens", Piotr said, referring to the large park behind the Palazzo Pitti. „Belonged to some Medici queen. The art of taxidermy wasn't yet perfected back then, but I think it's really well preserved for a real animal from the 1700s."

And the most fascinating part had yet to come. The same museum possessed a huge collection of wax models of human anatomy, both from the 18th and 19th century. There were various organs and body parts taken apart to reveal their many layers; so accurately modeled after the real thing that they could be easily mistaken for real. There were even whole human models in various stages of dissection: a flayed muscle-man, a male figure showing all veins and arteries, staring eeriely at us with wide, round eyeballs; and most unsettling of all, a female figure with her womb cut open, revealing a fetus inside. It was very much like Gunther von Hagen's „Body Worlds" exhibition. The Captain was creeped out by the objects, mumbling things like _get me outta here_ and _holy blistering barnacles_ from time to time.

„Take it easy, Captain, they're just wax models!" Piotr laughed and patted him on the back.

The Captain gave him an angry stare, then muttered something about needing whisky.

It was getting late, and we spent the remaining evening eating dinner at _Il__ Giova_ before going home. Piotr Skut insisted on feeding me _cantuccini__ di __Prato_, small hard almond biscuits, dipped in Vin Santo, a sweet dessert wine, and using a finger he wiped every single crumb from my lips. He clearly enjoyed this and I thought it was a little silly, eating like children, but why would I object as long as it tasted delicious? We only stopped when the Captain growled that we looked ridiculous doing this.

He also tried to phone Nestor, and sent him text messages, but received no replies. That puzzled us. Why wasn't Nestor answering? What was going on back home at Marlinspike Hall?

_._

_._

.

That night, I woke at what must have been around 2 o'clock in the morning. I saw light and heard the clanking of glass bottles from the kitchen. Captain Haddock was drinking whisky, but why at this hour?

Nevermind. I pulled my blanket over my head to shut out all sound and light, curling up on my side and trying to fall asleep.

He went back into the bedroom, and let himself fall onto my bed.

_Whoa,__ whoa!_ He had funny habits when drunk, but this was the first time he dropped into the wrong bed. I wanted to shove him out but he just lay there like a stone, smelling of whisky, and obviously passed out.

I wanted to get up and crawl into his now-empty bed so I could sleep soundly with all the space I needed, but I was so damn tired. It took me a good two minutes until I could open my eyes again. All right, time to get up. Just when I had made that decision, the Captain threw one heavy arm around me and pulled me close to him. _Oops._ I was still laying on my side and my foggy, still half-asleep brain registered the Captain behind me, his own body pressed tightly against mine.

What the hell was he doing? I didn't mind getting a little close, but I would have preferred him to be sober – he was simply more predictable then. I didn't react and almost fell asleep again – until I noticed something hard pressing against the small of my back.

_What __the-_?

Yes, it was clearly what I thought it was. He was having a hard-on.

An erection, warm and solid. And I could feel it extremely well.

„Whoa", I exclaimed, suddenly fully awake, and I recoiled from him, jumping off the bed.

He didn't react. Or pretended not to. As far as I could tell in the near-darkness of our room, he just lay there but most likely he wasn't passed out. For a minute or so I just stood in front of the bed, unsure what to make of it; then I decided that he had no idea what he was doing. He had done much more dangerous things when drunk. Still looking at him suspiciously, I crawled into the other bed and despite my surprise and confusion, soon fell asleep.

_._

_.  
>.<em>

_Stringiàmci a coórte,  
>Siam pronti alla morte!<br>Siam pronti alla morte!  
>L'Italia chiamò<br>Sì!_

TRANSLATIONS:

_'Ammannato,__ Ammannato__ / __Che __bel__ marmo __hai__ rovinato!' __- _Mr Ammannati, what a beautiful piece of marble you have ruined! (verse by Michelangelo Buonarroti)


	4. Chapter 4

_._

_Dall'Alpi a Sicilia_  
><em>Dovunque è Legnano,<em>  
><em>Ogn'uom di Ferruccio<em>  
><em>Ha il core, ha la mano,<em>  
><em>I bimbi d'Italia<em>  
><em>Si chiaman Balilla,<em>  
><em>Il suon d'ogni squilla<em>  
><em>I Vespri suonò.<em>

4.

The next morning I knew I'd had a strange dream: Captain Haddock had gotten drunk, crawled into my bed, holding me in his arms and pressing his erection against me. But after several hours of sleep, my memory was fuzzy. Though it had felt very realistic, the scenario seemed far away and absurd like a dream, so I assumed it had been one.

No reason for awkwardness. He did not seem to remember any such incident either – in any case, he didn't seem awkward. In fact, he was in a good mood after a morning coffee with whisky in it (or more precisely, a whisky with coffee in it).

A new message from Piotr Skut arrived on my cellphone. He was asking me if I wanted to go see a movie with him in the Astra cinema, in Piazza Cesare Beccaria. Of course I assumed that he meant both me and the Captain, so I asked the Captain if he wanted to go.

„To go where?" Haddock asked.

„To see a movie. With Piotr. Didn't he send you a text message?"

Haddock checked his cell phone. „No, he didn't." He searched through the cupboard until he found a shot glass for more whisky.

I showed him the text message. „Here. It starts about 17:00. Before that, he's got no time for us today. He has to work."

„Thundering typhoons! He's inviting you, but not me."

„It's all right, Captain, we can go together. Otherwise we don't have to."

He sighed. „Confound it! Do you really not notice that this guy wants something from you?"

I raised an eyebrow, and shook my head. Surely, the Captain couldn't mean _that_? That Piotr had been _flirting_ with me? I was quite sure he hadn't. Piotr Skut was always affectionate, and being from another country he surely had a different definition of 'personal boundaries'.

The Captain grabbed my shoulders. „All right, Tintin, time for Biology 101. I see how he is looking at you. If a guy gives _that_ look to another guy, it means one of two things: Either he wants to kill you, or he wants to fuck you. D'you not realize that?"

I was familiar with the 'I'm-going-to-kill-you'-look, and Piotr didn't give me that one, so what did the Captain mean? Piotr flirting with me? _Anyone _flirting with me? It seemed so absurd. I certainly didn't feel flirty at all, and had never attracted female attention (apart from that one time when Martine Vandezande had invited me to her parents' home, but her parents didn't like me, and we went separate ways and had gotten out of touch).

„Look, Tintin, just because you're asexual doesn't mean that everyone else around you is. In fact, most people are not."

Since I was a teenager I had wondered if I was asexual because I had never truly felt sexually attracted to anyone. At age 25, I was still a virgin. I only knew that I liked some people very much, they were important to me and I wanted them in my life – like the Captain, and Chang. But I masturbated sometimes, so I wasn't really asexual, was I?

But if Captain Haddock had noticed such things... This was awkward. „What's your point?" I asked.

Haddock poured whisky into the shot glass and emptied it. „My point is you should stay away from that Estonian pilot. I don't trust him around you."

I laughed. „Now, c'mon, Captain! We both know him. He's a gentleman, way too decent to try anything inappropiate!"

„Not if you _encourage_ him, billions of blistering barnacles! Don't you see it? He's all over you, and if you _allow_ him to spoonfeed you icecream and cookies, to touch you randomly all the damn time, next thing he'll get you drunk and seduce you and before you know it, you're full of regrets the next morning!"

I felt my cheeks getting flushed. He sure did talk bluntly about those things... Well, he was a sailor. „Captain, in case you didn't notice it, I'm an adult. I know what I'm doing."

„I'm pretty sure you don't! Listen, stubbornhead, do yourself a favor and if you can't stay away from him, at least don't _allow_ those silly things! It's not just playful – it's never only playful! He is... he's..."

„He's what?"

„... well, we don't really know him anyway, do we? First time we met him, he was shooting at us from a plane! How are you so sure he's a gentleman?"

„I appreciate you being worried about my well-being, but this is getting ridiculous. He is not a traitor! Now stop making such a fuss, or I'll go to the cinema with him – _alone_!" I got up from my chair and brought my breakfast plate to the sink. „All right, what are we gonna do today? It's just the two of us this time, and there's so much we haven't seen yet. Where do you want to go, Captain?"

He downed another shot, and got up as well. „You really don't understand what Piotr wants, do you?" His voice was low, his speech starting to become slurred.

I looked at him, getting annoyed. „Captain, I told you. I can look after myself. Stop it." I went to the room to retrieve our city guidebook. More interesting sights lay ahead.

Captain Haddock swiftly grabbed my wrists, pushing me against the closed door. Before I realized what was going on, his lips met mine.

He kissed me. Never having been kissed before, the sensation was so sudden, so new, so _shocking_ that I did not protest at all. I was amazed at how wet his tongue felt against mine; and how well I could taste the whisky, more so than I would have expected... So_ that's_ how it was!

But it certainly didn't stir up any butterflies in my stomach, or whatever it was that people claimed to feel in situations like this. I observed quite soberly that it felt hot and wet and intimate, and at the same time I was still too surprised to resist.

He stepped back from me, and I just stood there, mouth still open and face flushed. _Great __snakes!_

For a moment no one spoke, then he mumbled „That's what Piotr wants."

Without further explanations, he went to the sink and began to clean the dishes.

I went to the bedroom and picked up the guidebook, just as I had originally planned to do. But I was too dazed to actually read it. What the...? _Great__ snakes._ He had just kissed me. My first kiss. Unexpected and wet and hot and forceful. My. First. Kiss. The realization took a moment to sink in.

It had felt okay. That was confusing, because people always said kissing felt _amazing_.

After a while, anger mixed with my confusion. How dare he attack me like that? He would have to apologize. I went back to the kitchen where I found him sitting at the table, staring out of the window. We heard the thundering of hooves as an old-fashioned horse carriage for tourists passed by.

When he heard me he turned around. „Tintin, I'm so sorry!" he said. „I don't know why... I don't know! It was stupid and selfish and I..."

I took a deep breath. At least he seemed sober now.

„I won't do it again. Will you forgive me?"

It was always the same. First the drinking, then the regret, which led to more drinking – a neverending cycle. But I had sticked with him through worse things than this. „All right, all right", I said. „I got your point about Piotr." I put the city guide onto the table. „Let's forget about it now, and do some more sightseeing, shall we?"

_.  
>.<em>

I couldn't help it – things felt awkward between us. It was a beautiful summer day, the streets of Firenze full of people as always. We went to see the church of San Lorenzo and the adjacent _mercato_, a street full of market stands with all kinds of stuff: leather goods, stationery such as the pretty _carta__ fiorentina_, clothes, shoes, and snacks. A group of young men whistled as I walked by, and one called out something I didn't understand and therefore ignored („_Ehi, __bel __ragazzo, __ti__ mangerei! __Ha__ha!__"__)._ Snowy, pink as usual, attracted the most attention. I was already used to people snapping photos of him.

The church of San Lorenzo was impressive, though less distinctive than the _Duomo_. I was surprised to learn that some of the ancient-looking paintings in San Lorenzo had been executed only in the 1960s by the then-famous painter Pietro Annigoni.

Not exactly sure where we were – but that was part of the appeal – we continued into the Via Nazionale, which turned out to be one of the busiest old streets in town. Several cars parked on the already too narrow road, one of which was completely burnt and charred. Did Firenze perhaps have a pyromaniac too, like so many towns in Europe? After a moment we turned into the Via Guelfa, an one-way-street, as it was common here. I was so glad not to be here by car! The entire city was a confounded maze of one-way-streets that was certain to puzzle even longtime residents.

There wasn't much to see here except the small _Rotonda_, another building by Brunelleschi, and a ton of left-wing graffiti, rent offers, advertising and flyers covering the already dirty walls. One of the spray-painted sentences was larger than all others; and judging from faint traces on the same plaster wall it had been re-written and painted over several times. Obviously it referred to the Italian island of Lampedusa in the Mediterranean sea that received hundreds of African refugees each year.

SOLIDARITÀ CON LAMPEDUSA  
>RIVOLTÀ OVUNQUE<p>

After a few minutes we took a turn into the Via della Pergola, just out of curiosity. We passed a theatre and I almost expected to see a poster showing Bianca Castafiore plastered on the walls, but the posters were all about the _Maggio __Musicale __Fiorentino_.

„You getting hungry, Captain?" I asked. My stomach was already growling, and I wasn't sure where to find nice food around here. Another gypsy woman came towards us, asking for money. I noticed that they all looked the same – long braided hair, long multicolored skirts and blouses, and sandals with wedge heels. She went away when we ignored her.

We were in Via Sant'Egidio, and the delicious smells from a _döner kebab _restaurant caught our attention.

The restaurant owner seemed to be either German or Turkish, or maybe both, and upon noticing our lacking Italian, he immediately asked us, „_Sind__ Sie __aus __Deutschland?__ Wie__ gefällt__ Ihnen __Florenz_?", upon which I replied in my own rusty German. The _döner _tasted good, but not spectacular - Piotr probably knew a better place to eat.

„Let's go to the _Oltrarno_", I said. That was a relatively quiet part of Firenze on the other side of the Arno river, and it was traditionally known for its artists, jewellers and woodcraft workers. Along the very busy (but at least two-laned) Via Verdi we walked past the church of Santa Croce, famous for its elaborate facade and the graves of several famous people inside. A large scaffolding with seats for an audience was being erected in the big piazza in front of the church, and a glance into my guidebook told me that the _Calcio storico fiorentino_ was being held here each summer. Medieval football matches? I hoped we would have time for this, too.

Captain Haddock did not talk much, only occasionally commenting on a suicidal cyclist or Vespa rider, or snapping at a persistent street merchant.

"_Capelli guaddativi!_", an apparently mentally deranged guy shouted after us and I couldn't tell if he was drunk or speaking dialect, "_l'ura du giudizziu s'avvicina, populu non mancari all'appellu_!" We ignored him and he went away.

Finally we stood at the river. The Arno river, according to my guidebook, had flooded the town on several occasions. The last flood catastrophe had been in 1966 when the water level in the _Duomo_ and other places reached more than one meter. Many works of art were destroyed or damaged, and it had taken more than one year to get the mud-encrusted, water-ravaged city at least halfway clean. Many young volunteers from all parts of Europe had come to Firenze helping to clean up; they were called _angeli __del__ fango_ – Angels of the Mud.

Indeed: from what we could see, standing on the Ponte alle Grazie bridge, there wasn't much space between the Arno river and the old, heavily built-upon Ponte Vecchio bridge. It would take only a few days of rain and a bit of human error for the next flood disaster to happen.  
>„Thundering typhoons", Captain Haddock commented. „Those houses on the bridge look like they could break off at any moment and fall into the river! I wouldn't set a foot in there!"<p>

Looking at my map I noticed that the streets along the river all were called _Lungarno_ something, so it must mean „along the Arno". I wondered if in Rome the streets along the Tiber were similarly called _Lungotevere_.

Glancing at the watch, I noticed that it was already afternoon. I was too tired for more walking and my feet were aching again. And the Astra cinema was quite far from here. I still wanted to go see the movie with Piotr.

The Captain didn't seem very happy about my plans, I could tell so from his expression. But he didn't object, probably still feeling guilty about attacking me with that kiss. Not that it mattered. I would go anywhere anyway – I wasn't a child that had to be watched!

„Okay, I will take a bus to the Astra and meet Piotr, and what about you? You can come with me, it's all right."

He shook his head. „I'll go to the inn and relax", he answered. „Let's meet later. When will you be back?"

„Probably around eight or nine or so. I don't know how long the movie is. Afterwards we could still eat together. Or maybe he invites us for dinner again, then I'll text you."

He nodded, looking at me with the same worried expression.

I smiled. „Captain, please don't be concerned about me. You know what would be great? If you'd trust me to be able to take care of myself. Just trust that I'll be fine. Okay?"

„Yes, yes..." he said.

I hugged him. „It's all right. I will be all right."

With that, we parted ways and I proceeded to look for a kiosk or bar where I could buy a ticket for the Ataf city buses.

_.  
>.<em>

After much intense study of the bus line map handed out by the tourist office I finally figured out the correct way to Piazza Beccaria by bus. There, at the cinema, I would meet Piotr and we would see the movie. I checked my cell phone. No messages from him yet. That probably meant the plans hadn't changed.

The memory of the kiss was still fresh in my mind. Though awkward and forceful and tasting too much of whisky, kissing the Captain actually had felt good. The beard wasn't _that_ scratchy, and his lips were much softer than they looked. I wondered how it'd feel to kiss other people. Surely it would feel a little different with each person, wouldn't it?

And of course the sex thing held even bigger mysteries, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to solve them yet. Getting emotionally involved with other people almost always meant drama, and I simply had no time for such shenanigans. My own hand had done a quite good job so far. And I didn't have specific thoughts when masturbating. Even that I didn't do often. Maybe I had some kind of hormonal disturbance that led to prolonged puberty (At twenty-five I still looked like fifteen and barely had to shave at all) and lacking libido. I made a mental note to ask a doctor about it.

Those were my confused thoughts as I sat in the bus on my way north to Piazza Beccaria.

But to hell with it! What did it matter? I was a famous reporter, good at my job and content with my life.

Finally I reached the Piazza Cesare Beccaria, a huge circle-shaped _piazza_ flooded with car traffic. In its middle stood a giant, medieval-looking stone gate, the Porta Beccaria_,_ with plenty of pigeons sitting on it and shitting from it. The Astra cinema was easy to spot, and when I entered the hall, Piotr was already there, waiting for me.

„Good to see you!", he exclaimed. That seemed to be one of his favorite phrases. He hugged me tightly and announced a change of plans. „The movie doesn't show as planned", he said. „Not enough visitors. I was the only one who wanted to buy a ticket, so they cancelled the show."

„Oh, crumbs", I said. „Well... What do we do now?"

„We still can watch a movie!" He smiled widely at me. „I got a bunch of DVDs at home, and I don't live far from here. Want to come to my place?"

_._

_.  
>.<em>

_Stringiàmci a coórte,  
>Siam pronti alla morte!<br>Siam pronti alla morte!  
>L'Italia chiamò<br>Sì!_

* * *

><p>TRANSLATIONS:<p>

_Ehi,__ bel__ ragazzo,__ ti__ mangerei! __- _Hey, pretty boy, I'd eat you!

_Sind__ Sie __aus __Deutschland?__ Wie__ gefällt __Ihnen __Florenz? __-_ Are you from Germany? How do you like Florence?


	5. Chapter 5

_._  
><em>.<em>

_Son giunchi che piegano_  
><em>Le spade vendute:<em>  
><em>Già l'Aquila d'Austria<em>  
><em>Le penne ha perdute.<em>  
><em>Il sangue d'Italia,<em>  
><em>Il sangue Polacco,<em>  
><em>Bevé col cosacco,<em>  
><em>Ma il cor le bruciò.<em>

5.

„Sure, let's go to your place", I said to Piotr Skut. Yes, it would be interesting to see how he lived as an assistant and pilote to the billionaire Laszlo Carreidas. Either he would have a lavish suite in a luxury hotel, or a small quarter in a B&B inn, like ours.

Thinking of Carreidas, I wondered if we would get to meet him. Not that I was interested in his plans to retrieve an obscure legendary antidote called Mithridatium or Theriac, but he surely would try to talk to us personally, to perhaps convince us to help him. Well, it was only our third day here in Firenze! There was plenty of time for eccentric magnates to meet us when they wanted to.

Piotr lived in an apartment in Via della Mattonaia 13, which was indeed only a five-minute walk from the cinema. It was a nice building, probably from the 18th century, without graffiti, opposite an old monastery. Our favorite tiny restaurant _Il __Giova_ was just around the corner, and the gelateria _Badiani_ about twenty walking minutes away.

A large Croatian flag was stuck in a flag holder on the facade – the Croatian embassy was located here. The house had the same heavy wooden doors like most others and in addition to the keys, required a good deal of pushing to open.

Altogether, Piotr used four different keys to get to his apartment on the top floor. „The Florentines are paranoid about burglars. But all those extra doors in the hallway don't help much, because burglars prefer to come via the balcony."

His apartment was an one-room arrangement with high ceilings and walls that needed repainting very badly, but it was clean and in order. He told me about the high rents: an one-room place like this one cost 600€ per month upwards. Students often shared apartments or even a bedroom. A bed in a shared chamber went for 250€ per month; but in the outskirts of the town you might get your own room for that.

We were in something like a small kitchen-livingroom. Opposite a cooking corner with some cabinets and shelves there was a small blue Ikea sofa and Piotr set up his laptop computer on a couch table in front of it. There were a lot of DVDs on a small shelf on the wall. „Go ahead, pick a movie, I like all of them. ...You want something to drink?"

„Water or tea would be nice."

„You don't drink alcohol, do you?" He grinned.

„No... Just wine, sometimes. When it suits the occasion."

„Like yesterday at _Il__ Giova_."

„Yes... it was really good wine. As you'd expect it here." The Chianti area just south of Firenze was famous for its wines.

„Actually, I have one here", Piotr said, pulling a bottle from the kitchen cabinet. „A _Vernaccia__ di __San __Gimignano_. Quite famous stuff! Even got its own Wikipedia article and _Denominazione__ di __Origine __Controllata __e __Garantita_ seal!" He opened the bottle and poured small amounts of the white wine into two glasses, placing one of the couch table in front of me. „_A proposito_, have you heard about San Gimignano, the Manhattan of the Middle Ages? We should go see it while we're here... there's a bus going there from Poggibonsi on a regular basis." He lifted his glass, and so did I.

„What do we drink to?" I asked.

„To... um..." He hesistated. „To your... adventures! And, as they say here, _alla__ salute_!"

„To adventure! _Alla__ salute_!" I smiled and took a sip.

I picked a movie that looked interesting – it was a series called „Pillars of the Earth". He put the disc into the notebook and we sat down onto the sofa.

_.  
>.<em>

I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but before I noticed it had gotten dark. „Pillars of the Earth" was suspenseful and highly entertaining. Piotr had put an arm around me and my head rested on his shoulder. Our feet lay on the couch table, and my one hand was on his knee. I knew that we were a little closer than friends usually were, and we weren't even close friends, but I was perfectly comfortable with it. In fact I had _longed_ to cuddle with someone – no one had held me in their arms since I was a child.

I had never felt brave enough to try cuddling with the Captain, for fear he wouldn't allow it. He simply wasn't the type who would encourage such silly, sentimental, schmaltzy and bordering-on-romantic behaviour, not even in a drunk state. For Captain Haddock, I had to be strong and mature. That's how it had always been. He must not think of me as a sissy or little boy.

For me it took someone like Piotr to make the first step, someone who clearly liked being so close to me, for whatever reason. Most likely it was simply a crush, or it was exactly as the Captain had said: Piotr was 1) into guys, 2) horny, 3) hoping to get some action from me. I wasn't sure if I wanted „action", but if he was the gentleman I assumed him to be, he would understand.

From my shoulder, he let his hand trail along my nape, the back of my head, and along my cheek, careful to watch my reaction. We looked at each other, his face moving closer to mine, and I knew what would come next. And it was good.

He pressed his lips onto mine. They felt warm and soft, and my first instinct was to compare it with my very first kiss I'd only had the same day. Piotr's kiss felt similar, but he was much gentler and even seemed a little nervous himself.

His hand lay on my cheek, rough and calloused as you'd expect the hand of a pilot to be. He kept caressing my face and neck, interrupting the kiss to look at me for a moment, then he kissed me again. This time, he was more daring, thrusting his tongue into my mouth.

It felt just as warm and wet as with the Captain. Was there anything I was supposed to do? Where to put my hands? If I put my hands on his back, would he push me down with him and go too far? Then I realized I should probably use my tongue too, and I started to kiss him back, wondering what this would lead to.

I got anxious. This felt good, but the idea of what could happen was a little scary. He seemed to be unable to get enough of this tongue-play so I was the one who finally pulled away.

The movie was still playing on the notebook but I was so distracted, I had no idea anymore what was happening in the story.

Piotr was looking at me, his hand still on my cheek. „Tintin..." he said, „you've never done this before, have you?"

A little embarassed, I avoided his gaze. „No." It was technically a lie, but I felt so inexperienced and incompetent that I couldn't think of another answer. „No, I've never done this before."

He paused. „Whoa", he finally said, „you're really _that_ innocent. _Che__ carino!_"

I raised an eyebrow at his slightly patronizing statement. „What? Is it written across my face?"

He grinned. „Yeah. Pretty much."

I stared at him for a moment. His smile was disarming. I had to grin as well.

„_Mi__ hai __incantato. __Potrei__ guardarti__ tutto__ il__ giorno_", he said, letting one finger trail along my lips. I had no idea what those Italian words meant but it sounded quite beautiful so I did not mind. He seemed fascinated, touching me and looking into my eyes. Perhaps the principle „opposites attract" was true. His own face was quite gaunt, not round like mine; and of course, the eyepatch made him stand out.

„You nervous?" he asked me.

I nodded.

„Don't be. Just relax. It's okay."

„Yes", I said shyly, knowing I'd have to make things clear. „This is all new for me and I like it a lot. But I don't want to go into _serious_ stuff. All right?"

„Tell me what you mean by _serious_."

„Er... sex, of course."

„Well, there are many things we could do that aren't sex." His grin became wider. „Things that feel really, really good. Tintin... you don't know what you're missing. Let me show you some miracles."

I hesistated. „Well..."

„You're not asexual, are you?"

„Yes... er, I mean, no, but-"

„You're the boss. I want to show you something great, it'll feel wonderful, I promise! But I can stop at any time you tell me. I'd never do anything you don't want. Okay?"

It was like being with a teacher, and I had to smile. Well, what did I possibly have to lose? I absolutely didn't have a crush on Piotr, but this felt so incredibly exciting, new, exotic, and – well, _good_. I thought I'd just felt what people called „butterflies" in the stomach - a warm feeling of arousal.

And, indeed! I was getting aroused and he would notice the unmistakable bulge in my jeans.

This was the first time another person had caused this, and it however exciting it felt, it was strange, and I couldn't help but be shy about it.

„Okay", I finally said. „Show me."

_._

_.  
>.<em>

_Stringiàmci a coórte,  
>Siam pronti alla morte!<br>Siam pronti alla morte!  
>L'Italia chiamò<br>Sì!_

* * *

><p>TRANSLATIONS:<p>

_Mi__ hai __incantato__ – _You've enchanted me

_Potrei__ guardarti __tutto __il __giorno__ – _I could look at you all day long


	6. Chapter 6

.

6.

Again, the boyish grin. His gentle touch on my knee. „Okay", Piotr said. „_Divertiamoci! _Lean back and relax."

I leaned back on the sofa, lying down on its length, and he climbed on top of me, kissing me wetly and hungrily. His hand reached between my legs, felt and rubbed my erection through my jeans.

„Ooh!" I moaned into his mouth.

After what felt like a full minute of kissing, I felt his lips near my ear, still hot and moist. His breath barely brushed my neck and ear and sent shudders of pleasure over my skin. He licked my earlobe, nibbled on it, unbearably teasingly and slowly.

I'd had absolutely no idea that this area was so sensitive.

At the same time he fumbled with the button and zipper of my pants, finally opening them and freeing my erection.

My shirt had become impossibly warm and uncomfortable so I unbuttoned it hastily, with trembling fingers, and threw it onto the floor. Piotr instantly focused on my bare upper body, touching me as if he couldn't get enough of it. „Your skin's so soft", he whispered. „_Sei tanto bello_... _non ho mai visto un ragazzo così bello_!"

Then his tongue was on my nipples, teasing me again – it was a very sensitive area too, but to my surprise, in a different way: it tickled. I couldn't help but giggle and wince. „Hi hi!"

He glanced up at me, amused. „You liked it more on the ears, no?"

I nodded, hoping he wouldn't be discouraged from anything now, just when I definitely knew I wanted more. He moved further upwards, back again to my ears, and playfully teased them again, his breath feeling hot, and his tongue wet. His hand closed around my hardness, doing what only I had done before.

Clearly Piotr knew what he was doing. I was getting even more aroused; my skin turning sweaty, my head dizzy with pleasure.

I was exposed and literally in his hands. Usually the thought would have been scary but right now it added to my excitement. Breathing heavily, I arched my back towards him, wanting more of him.

Then suddenly the hands were gone. Piotr sat up on the sofa, pulling me up. „_Sei molto sensibile quando ti tocco_...! Sit here... ", he whispered. A little dazed, I sat up, setting my feet onto the floor and wondering what would come next. „Take these off", he said, tugging at my jeans and swiftly pulling them away.

Now I was sitting there on the sofa, totally naked, and he knelt down onto the floor, right between my feet, and it dawned upon me what he was going to do. _Great snakes!_

Indeed; he gently pushed my thighs a little further apart, leaning face-forward into my lap.

„_Fammi leccarlo dalle palle al capo_."

What did he say? Before my prudish Boy Scout values could object, he began to lick me, deliberately teasing, subjecting my most sensitive area to the varied stimulation of hot breath, cool air, and wet tongue.

It was maddeningly titillating, driving my crazy, but _mon Dieu_, so damn good! I bit my lips to suppress a moan, and he looked up at me. „Don't hold back", he whispered. „Let me hear your voice."

Unable to speak – my mind was clouded with the rush of pleasure - I just nodded. My face felt hot and flushed.

Piotr continued using his mouth, taking me almost all the way in. It was so much wetter and hotter than anything I'd ever felt before, and I responded with a sigh. I was lost, no longer in charge.

Never would I have guessed that being at someone's mercy could be so exciting!

_Ô mon Dieu, great snakes, ô mon Dieu...! _This guy knew exactly what he was doing. I looked down, seeing only his blonde hair and shoulders, wondering how often he'd done this before. I wasn't sure why, but I suddenly wanted to touch his hair so I put one hand on his head.

This seemed to encourage him, for he began to suck more intensively. All my feeling was concentrated on this one point, so incredibly intense. What had been just a tingling at the base of my erection at first now became waves of pleasure, getting stronger. I moaned, panting, my mind a dizzy mess of overwhelming lust.

„Oh... _mon Dieu_..." I groaned as his sucking movements became faster.

Weirdly, my body was tingling, and getting tense. It was becoming harder to enjoy the feeling _and_ to hold back at the same time. I wouldn't be able to last much longer so I made an effort to speak. „Piotr... wait! Wait...! I can't..."

He ignored me, licking and sucking with that experienced mouth of his.

„Piotr, I'm gonna come!"

Finally he looked up, his gaze meeting mine, and smiled. „Then come", he said. „_Vieni per me_!"

With that, he continued stimulating me, building up tension and pressure, and forcing out small spasms of anticipation from me until I knew I'd reached the point of no return.

It was a final explosion more intense than any I'd ever experienced. I arched my back towards him, throwing back my head as the exhilarating wave of release swept over me. All the build-up tension burst out, and I couldn't hold back a groan.

„Ahhh!"

Breathing heavily, I leant back on the sofa, my mind a fuzzy mess, clouded like after a hot steam bath.

Looking down, I saw Piotr, and suddenly noticed that my hands were both gripping his hair, and instantly I let go. „Sorry..." I mumbled.

My entire body felt weak for a minute or so, and I barely registered Piotr sitting down on the sofa next to me. I looked at him and another realization hit me. „Piotr..." I said. „... wait a moment! Did you just... did you...?"

He just showed me a wide grin. One smile that was worth a thousand words.

„Oh, crumbs", I muttered, putting one hand onto my mouth. „Don't tell me... you swallowed...!"

„You actually taste pretty good, Tintin."

„I'm so sorry", I whispered, „ah, damnit, I didn't mean to..."

„No, no, _carino_, that was the point", he said gently.

It took me a moment to regain a clear mind. We just sat there on the sofa, silently. The movie on the laptop computer had stopped playing.

What time was it? I got up, my legs still trembling a little, searching my pants on the floor and picking up my cell phone that was in the jeans pocket. Then I realized I was completely naked and had just shown Piotr everything by bending down in front of him, but if that'd given him any ideas, he did not show it. I checked the time on my cell phone. „Great snakes!" I exclaimed. It was almost 23:00.

Hadn't it just been late afternoon? Suddenly I felt hungry. „I should go back to my inn", I said. „The Captain's probably worried already..." However, worn out as I was right now I was in absolutely no mood to walk through the night.

„But it's so late", Piotr said. „Why don't you just sleep here? And tomorrow morning, we can go grocery shopping at Coop together, and then I'll walk you back to the inn, how about that?"

I was so tired that I gladly accepted. But I needed to tell Captain Haddock. I dialed his number and waited until I heard his voice.

„Hello, Captain, it's Tintin. … No, I'm all right. Yes, I saw that movie with Piotr."

„It's damn late! Where are you?" Haddock demanded to know.

„I'm at Piotr's apartment, and I'm gonna stay the night. Just wanted to tell you. Everything's all right."

„You're _what_?" he shouted. „One billion blistering barnacles!" Then he caught himself. „Tintin... you're staying overnight with that guy?"

„Yes, yes! And it's all right", I said annoyedly. „Please _don't_ worry." That was the last thing I needed – the Captain being concerned about me for absolutely no reason.

For a moment there was silence on the other end. Then Haddock said, „Okay, when are you gonna be back?"

„Hmm... Tomorrow morning or noon, I guess. I'll see you then. Good night."

„Good night, Tintin."

With that, I hung up and let myself fall back onto the sofa. The Italian summer night was so warm I wouldn't need a pajama, and I was still feeling hot and sweaty anyway. But at least I should wear my underpants so I looked for them.

Piotr must have gotten hungry too, for he opened the fridge and put several things onto the couch table: various cheeses, dips, tomatoes, slices of _bresaola _and _prosciutto di Parma_, dried tomatoes in oil, artichokes in oil, several pieces of bread, and the still half-full bottle of _Vernaccia_.

It was a a delicious late dinner.

* * *

><p>TRANSLATIONS of Piotr's sexy Italian phrases:<p>

_Divertiamoci! - _Let's have fun!

_Sei tanto bello_... _non ho mai visto un ragazzo così bello_! - You're so beautiful... I've never seen such a beautiful boy before!

_Sei molto sensibile quando ti tocco – You're really sensitive when I touch you_

_Fammi leccarlo dalle palle al capo – Let me lick it from balls to top_

_Vieni per me – Come for me_

_ô mon Dieu –_ Oh my God (French – Tintin's native language ;] )


	7. Chapter 7

.

7.

The next morning, standing under the shower in Piotr's apartment, I wondered about yesterday night and felt a little embarassed. In just one day I had collected more sexual experience than in all my previous years. And with a man on top of that!

Did I have a reason to regret it? It had felt amazing, but there was this worrying voice in the back of my head asking me why Piotr Skut had done all this. Did he expect more? He wanted _actual_ sex, didn't he? Or, what if he wanted a _relationship_? I absolutely wasn't ready for anything like that.

Surely he would want something! It was hard to imagine that anyone would give so much without receiving in return.

And me being with another man, _and_ close friends with the Captain at the same time? That would never work!

After I'd gotten dressed and eaten breakfast (Swiss muesli and milk from Coop's organic brand _Viviverde_) with Piotr, he told me about the call he'd just gotten from Laszlo Carreidas. „My boss wants to meet you and Captain Haddock this afternoon", he said. „He's inviting you to Café Rivoire in Piazza della Signoria."

„It's fine", I said, secretly dreading Carreidas' selfish temper and how he'd try to convince us to help him with his crazy plans to search old nonexistent substances. But we could hardly refuse tea time with our generous host who'd given us this vacation.

„Let's go to the supermarket while it's still morning", I said, looking forward to pick up some interesting Italian food as souvenirs. Right now the weather was still breezy and cool – only few hours from now the sun would be at its hottest.

We crossed the huge Piazza Cesare Beccaria with its neverending, noisy flow of traffic which, at the pedestrian crossing, came to a sudden halt when the pedestrian traffic light turned green. It was as if the cars had hit some kind of invisible wall that'd gently stopped them in their tracks. In a crowd of people and dangerously acrobatic bicyclists we crossed Piazza Beccaria, walking beneath the solid Porta Beccaria gate until we reached the other sidewalk „shore".

After five minutes or so of walking we reached the Coop supermarket in Via Cimabue. Coop was, as Piotr explained, one of the biggest supermarket chains in Italy, along with Esselunga and Carrefour.

From the impressive array of fresh produce (peaches! Peaches everywhere!), Piotr picked a box of cherries and some white peaches which he claimed where the best. I went to the cheese counter where I saw a lot of items I didn't know existed - I'd vaguely heard of _Pecorino toscano_, but what on earth was a _Scamorza affumicata, _or a_ Caprino di Cavalese? _I decided to only pick up some longer-lasting things and preserves. At the end of our shopping trip, Piotr's red plastic basket was full of fruit and frozen pizza, and mine contained _ventresca di tonno_, little jars of _pesto alla genovese _and_ sugo di noci, _several kinds of pasta from Coop's _fior fiore_ gourmet brand, and baked goods – _cantuccini di Prato, amarettini di Saronno_, and _cavallucci_. We paid at the self-checkout, something I wasn't familiar with, but Piotr said he did it all the time here because it was so much faster and machines didn't complain if you gave them dozens of little copper coins.

On the way home, he clumsily picked a pair of cherries from his shopping bag, and before I could protest, hung it over my ear and wanted to snap a picture with his cell phone. „Hahaha, Tintin, you look so adorable!"

Usually I liked how playful he was, but this time I refused to take part. „No pictures!" I was a well-known reporter with a reputation to lose. There mustn't be silly photos of me all over the internet!

„Then let me at least eat them", he said with a wicked grin and leaned over to me, nibbling one cherry from my ear, and then the other. People were giving us weird looks, and I had to laugh.

Piotr, you couldn't wait till we're home, could you?"

„To wash the cherries? Don't worry, they're organic."

Back at his place, he first hurried to stash the pizzas in his freezer compartment, then took me back to the inn in Via die Cimatori. It was almost noon, the fresh morning air giving way to sultry summer heat.

I entered our vacation apartment. „_Bonjour! Capitaine!_" I shouted. He was at the door immediately.

Holding up my heavy shopping bags, I said, „Look, I bought some nice stuff. We don't have to eat out all the time. Let's cook pasta for lunch today."

„I've got to go now", Piotr said, „to meet my boss."

I noticed that the Captain had barely looked at me, but instead was staring angrily at Piotr.

The Estonian pilot held his gaze, staying quiet. There was an uncomfortable tension in the air. For a while, no one spoke. Great snakes, would the Captain snap at Piotr? I held my breath.

Finally Captain Haddock focused on me. „So how was the movie? Did you have a good time?"

„Yes... um... it was good", I said.

„I gotta go", Piotr said, hugging me, and then offering the Captain his hand.

Haddock hesitated, then grabbed Piotr's hand so firmly that the Estonian's face contorted with pain for about two seconds, then they quickly let go from each other.

„Well... I'll meet you at Café Rivoire at four o'clock then, okay? Mr Carreidas is looking forward to see you again. _Ciao_!"

With that, Piotr Skut was gone. As soon as the door had closed, I gave Captain Haddock a questioning look. Why this strange behaviour? Why all the worry? At least he was sober right now.

„Captain, what's going on?" I asked.

„That's what I wanted to ask you."

„Well, I met with Piotr. It was all right. He's not a bad guy. What are you upset about?"

Captain Haddock sat down at the kitchen table, stuffing tobacco into the pipe – it was as if he had to do something, anything, just to avoid my gaze right now.

„Well..." he finally said after a few puffs of smoke, „so you spent a night at his place. Did he do anything... um... inappropiate?"

I gave him an incredulous stare. „Of course not!"

"You two... did it, didn't you?"

"Captain!" I felt myself blush. "This is ridiculous. I didn't sleep with Piotr! ...Even if I did, it's none of your business!"

Why was he acting in this strange way? Possibly he was... No. Impossible. He'd never shown any feelings for me beyond friendship.

Or perhaps he had, and I hadn't seen it. Just as I hadn't noticed Piotr's flirtatiousness at first.

I looked into his eyes. "Captain... are you _jealous_?"

.

.

.

He did not respond; simply continued smoking. I cooked the tagliatelle for lunch.

When I set plates of hot pasta onto the table and spooned _pesto alla genovese _on top, he placed his hand upon mine. "I'm so sorry", he said, "for being such an old fool. You're right, Tintin. It's none of my business whom you're having fun with... I was stupid to assume you'd always be the naive, innocent boy reporter. You're an adult. Been one for years. I should've known. Of course you'd want to explore things." The last words were a whisper.

I put my own hand on his, sitting down at the table facing him. Time to be frank. He was my best friend, he deserved honesty. "Me and Piotr, we're _not _a couple, and I can't imagine being with him in that way... I mean, let's be realistic about it: he's got a demanding job and so do I... we'd never have time to be together! But he _is _a gentleman. And showed me some quite amazing things yesterday. We didn't have sex, though, because I didn't want to. That's how it is."

He looked at me, nodding silently.

"Captain, please don't be jealous. I don't want to lose you."

Great snakes, how corny that sounded! But what else could I say? It was the truth: I wanted to stay with him, whatever happened. Why did it have to be so terribly complicated? Here I was_, not _being in any relationship, and already dealing with drama.

Was he in love with me? If so, how long had it been? Did he want to do the same things with me as Piotr?

I was curious how it would feel to be with him in that intimate way, just as I had done last night, but that was my adventurous mind, not my heart. Or was it?

What did I want? Not a love relationship, so much was certain. Just that close bond of friendship we already had.

A love relationship meant sex, and I was pretty sure I didn't want that. Being penetrated? Heaven forbid! How could _that _possibly feel good? Being the active partner was probably better. But with whom? I had never met anyone I found so attractive that I instantly wanted to - to express it in a sailor's terms - shag them.

We ate our pasta in silence.

Haddock's cell phone rang and he interrupted eating. "Who's there?"

After a few seconds of listening, an expression of shock crossed his face.

"What?" he shouted. "At Marlinspike Hall? You sure you got the right address, not Cutts the butcher? ... one billion blistering barnacles!"

"What happened?" I wanted to know but he was too distracted.

"Oh no...! No!..." He was practically screaming at the cell phone. "We'll be there in an instant! ... What? All cordoned off by the police? ... Crime scene? I will show you a blasted crime scene! Yes, yes, we'll be there!"

He finally hung up and before I could ask, told me what it was about. "Marlinspike Hall was burglarized. The police just found out, and can you imagine they found Nestor locked in one of the bathrooms! Poor Nestor, he's been in there for two days, with no food! Didn't manage to kick in the door. Those bandits, to let Nestor starve! If I ever lay my hands on them, I will disembowel them, those Talibans! Filesharing pirates! Dictators! Executioners! Trolls!"

"A burglary? What did they say about it?"

"The police officer who called me said that valuable items were left in place. But they'll have Nestor look around and he'll tell us later if anything's been stolen. Right now the place is a mess, they say. It seems that the burglars looked for something... Oh, and there's also been a fight, apparently. There's blood on the hallway floor, but no injured people, no corpses... Thundering typhoons!" He threw his arms into the air. "Those confounded Bashi-bazouks, I shall get them and they'll wish they'd never been born, those terrorists! Bandwidth leeches! Republicans! Hackers!"

Great snakes! I regretted that I had been too lazy to even think about outfitting the castle with security cameras. It would have been easy to set up a few webcams and have them send images to my notebook via Internet - people had actually caught burglars that way while away from home. But now it had happened, and we must do whatever we could. "So we should go back to Marlinspike hall. I'll book us a new flight rightaway."

"Isn't it clear, lad? That was Carreidas' doing, I'll bet my whisky on it."

Carreidas? Sure, he wanted something from us. Some old bottle with a mysterious substance that he thought to be at Marlinspike Hall. But seriously, he would not send burglars, would he? "That's nonsense. He could not afford doing something so... illegal."

"Carreidas is evil, remember?" Obviously, the Captain still held a grudge against him. "A goddamn fraud, cheating in games, and... well, I'll talk to him today, all right!"

In one hour from now we would walk to the Café Rivoire, try what Piotr claimed to be the best hot chocolate in all of Firenze, and meet the eccentric billionaire Laszlo Carreidas.

* * *

><p>TRANSLATIONS<p>

_ventresca di tonno - _tuna belly meat, the finest part of the tuna

_sugo di noci - _walnut sauce

_cantuccini di Prato - _twice-baked long-ish almond cookies, known elsewhere as biscotti

_amarettini di Saronno - _small, round chewy almond cookies

_cavallucci - _chewy little anise biscuits_  
><em>


	8. Chapter 8

.

8.

It was another of those hot afternoons in Firenze, the thermometer on the facade next to the window displaying 35°C. I kept the green window shutters closed, but even so, sunlight brightened the room. Our little apartment would still feel warm in the evening.

The streets were crowded not only because it was high tourist season but also because it was a Saturday when everyone went shopping in the boutiques and department stores. There was a big _La Rinascente_ store in Piazza Repubblica, and of course, we visited the _Mercato Vecchio_, something like a miniature version of San Lorenzo Market. Walking through the wide streets around this piazza we spotted even more _negozi_ – there was a Disney store, two Zara and one H&M boutique, even a five star hotel, but it was the street painters that captured most of our interest. Not those sitting at easels and sketching your portraits for fifteen euros or the watercolorists (some of whom had been accused of selling digital prints as original watercolor works), but the _madonnari_, the pastel artists with a tradition going back several hundred years. According to my guidebook, they started drawing images of madonnas onto the road back in the Renaissance era.

Every pastel artist or group of artists was crouching on the hot street on an outlined square roughly measuring 1,5 square meters and drawing something onto the large, flat cobblestone: a madonna by Raphael or Leonardo; one even copied a Bouguereau painting. Passersby admired the works, sometimes gave coins to the artists.

Glancing at my watch, I thought it was about time to go to the café.

Café Rivoire, located directly across the Palazzo Vecchio with its balcony made famous by Hannibal Lecter, was known for its hot chocolate, but I hoped they had cold drinks as well. Inside it was pleasantly cool: truly, the Italians understood something about air-conditioning!

We spotted Laszlo Carreidas sitting at a small corner table in the 19th-century pseudo-Rococo interior. He was alone. Perhaps he did not trust the people around him any more – it wouldn't be surprising after having been betrayed by his secretary Spalding, then kidnapped to Sondonesia, and later having fallen victim to a poisoning.

He recognized us as we approached the table, standing up and waving us closer to him. "_B-b-b-buon giorno_, my dear Tintin, my dear Haddock", he stuttered with his usual blank face. _The billionaire who never laughs._ Still, he did not look as if he owned a single cent: his coat and hat were way too large for him, but stylish pieces that would have earned the attribute _vintage_ hadn't they been so worn-out and torn in places. And they smelled quite bad. If they were original clothes from before World War Two they had probably never been washed since then. I was amazed they hadn't instantly thrown him out of this café; perhaps they already knew him. And what was he doing in that coat anyway in the smoldering summer heat out there? In addition, he wore the same yellow scarf I had seen before.

His face was more gaunt than usual; he looked a bit sickly. The Captain and I sat down at the table on dainty little Viennese coffeehouse-style chairs.

"They've got no Sani-Cola here", Carreidas muttered, and sneezed. "A-tchooooo! ...I will offer them a test delivery. Anyway... Well." He was not the type who made small talk. "You know why I wanted to meet you, right?"

I nodded. "It's about that ancient substance you're seeking. Mithridatium, or Theriac, I believe..."

"Yes, that's correct! You see, it is..."

He fell silent when a waiter approached our table. In broken Italian glanced from my travel guide, I ordered an iced lemonade for myself. The Captain ordered whisky, and Carreidas, curiously, a cup of hot chocolate. Maybe the poor guy really had some condition that made him feel cold.

Something beeped, and Carreidas took out his Smartphone, listening annoyedly. "A Damien Hirst? ... But I've already got a shark in formalin! … Saatchi's after it? Then buy! …I don't care how much! Buy! … Yes, the Jeff Koons too!" He sighed, ending the conversation and putting the Smartphone back into his coat. "Art collecting's nothing but trouble."

When the waiter was gone, Carreidas continued. "I have reason to believe that your ancestor left a sample of Mithridatium in his estate. And if his estate is preserved in its entirety at Marlinspike Hall, you would do me a great favor by helping me find this object. Of course you would be rewarded generously."

Captain Haddock who had been looking grumpy all the time, finally snapped. "There will be no adventure chase, you paranoid conspiracy theorist! We've already booked a flight back home to Brussels and will check out the crime scene! … What, don't give me that surprised look! I know it was you who hired thugs to break in there to search for this... this confounded old stuff!"

Carreidas' face reddened with anger, and for a moment I thought he'd scream back at Haddock. It was known he cared a great deal about manners (in other people), and wouldn't allow being shouted at. But then his face color went from red to pale, and he stuttered, "C-c-crime scene?"

I put my hand upon Haddock's arm, signaling him to calm down. "Please forgive his outburst, Mr Carreidas. We're currently under some stress because a few hours ago we learned that someone broke into Marlinspike and searched it, apparently creating quite a mess. They locked our butler in a bathroom for two days with no food, and there seem to have been violent scenes. The Captain is very upset but we don't believe for a second that you-"

Carreidas' mouth fell open, and he turned even paler. "Someone... b-b-b-broke into Marlinspike?"

"That's what the police told us."

"Oh God", he mumbled, "oh God. Oh God."

I watched his reaction carefully, noting the expression of dismay on his face. Nothing about it nor his body language seemed 'off' - the news really appeared to have hit him.

He took a sip of hot chocolate. "No, no, no", he mumbled, shaking his head, then sneezed again, even louder this time. "Great stocks and shares!" he exclaimed, wiping his nose with his yellow scarf, "this is a catastrophe! Gentlemen, has anything been stolen from Marlinspike?"

"We don't know yet", I said. "They have Nestor check out everything but he hasn't reported any thefts so far."

"Oh God, great stocks and shares!" The billionaire's voice became louder. "Well... when did it happen? Are there any suspects? … Ah, never mind, I think I know who's responsible! Yes, I know it!" He pointed a finger at us, his voice dropping. "I'm telling you, gentlemen, it was Rastapopoulos!"

We stared at him, flabbergasted. "...Rastapopoulos?"

"That very same! He is after Mithridatium since he knows I'm looking for it! He wants to find it before I do!"

"Thundering typhoons, that's the grandest bullshit I've ever heard", the Captain said before I could deliver a strategic kick to his shinbone. "Why would Rastapopoulos, of all people, be interested in something like that just because you're after it? Just to annoy you? Breaking into Marlinspike, just to annoy us? He's a troublemaker but he can't afford such shenanigans."

Well, the Captain had a good point.

What had become of Rastapopoulos anyway? I hadn't seen him since our adventure in Sondonesia. Had he managed to escape from the erupting volcano, like we had?

Carreidas' voice dropped another octave. "Gentlemen, you don't understand", he said. "This Mithridatium, or Theriac, isn't just some old molasses. It is the most potent universal antidote in history, and there are only few actual samples in existence, if any. The formula has been lost, but even if it existed, it wouldn't be of much use to me now, because the substance reveals its full potency only after it has aged for several years – you know, like a good _Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena. _And it can act as a preventive measure against every poison – and I really mean every poison – as well as a cure!"

"But that's just folklore", I said, not sure how to politely express my disagreement. "A matter of belief. Something that you either believe or don't..."

"Let Laszlo Carreidas finish talking, young grasshopper!" the billionaire snapped. "No, it is not a matter of belief! What do you take me for, a religious fanatic? No, it is a proven fact, and I will tell you why. Have you ever heard of King Mithridates of Pontus?"

"The one who wanted to kill himself by poisoning but failed because he was immune against them all? It is a _legend_, Mr Carreidas, with absolutely no historical background-"

"Have you heard of the Borgia family?" he exclaimed. "Yes, you have, I'm sure. Those were times when one couldn't be too careful not to get poisoned among the noble families of the Italian states! The Borgias were poison experts and had their own poison specialty; a substance named _La Cantarella _which they used to kill their adversaries, but it was Theriac that kept them in power! No one ever managed to poison a Borgia because they were immune against all poisons!"

"But-" I objected.

"Cesare Borgia was killed in battle, Juan Borgia killed in an assault, Lucrezia Borgia died of illness... and so on! But no one died of poisoning! No one!"

"I thought..." I said, but then stopped. Actually I was quite sure that the Borgia _padrone_, Pope Alexander VI, had died of poisoning. But it did not matter: Laszlo Carreidas obviously had collected a bunch of irrelevant pseudo-evidence to support his theory of Theriac. Stuff that sounded significant but wasn't. So it was really a matter of belief to him, and I knew very well that once people believed something, they could not be talked out of it. Even if it was something completely illogical such as an universal antidote. 'Poison' itself was a relative concept. As the German doctor Paracelsus had expressed it in the 16th century: "_Alle Dinge sind Gift. Allein die Dosis macht, dass ein Ding kein Gift ist._" - "All things are poison. The dosage alone determines toxicity."

But logic was not a criteria for belief. Intelligent, bright people believed things that a logical mind, even their own, would reject as illogical if they allowed it. As humans, even in today's "enlightened" civilizations, we'd never be able to shake off beliefs. We'd never be completely rational beings. Faith was innate to our human nature.

I should not be surprised that Laszlo Carreidas believed in Mithridatium.

.

.

.

Later, Carreidas exchanged cellphone numbers with us and I wanted to keep our options open so I told him we'd think about a search for Mithridatium (or whatever it was) at Marlinspike Hall, but did not promise anything. The billionaire was not entirely satisfied, probably having hoped we'd invite him to Marlinspike right away; but he did not complain.

Captain Haddock and I were taking a walk through Firenze, already feeling more familiar with the streets and less dependent on the map. We watched a street artist (he called himself _Mimito_) in Piazza della Repubblica act out various clown roles; and we walked through the maze of narrow, medieval streets near the Duomo where we discovered a small museum dedicated to the Florentine poet Dante Alighieri, and a gelateria called _Grom_ that offered excellent ice-cream on par with that from _Badiani_.

We were sitting on the doorsteps of a house in a very small, quiet courtyard behind a 19th-century supermarket (it was called _Pegna _and boasted it'd been around _dal 1860_), eating our gelato from small paper cups. A cat was watching us curiously, then disappeared behind a dumpster.

"When we're home I'm gonna check for a flight to Brussels right away", I said. "If there's one available tonight, do you want to book it? Or would you rather wait, and get some sleep?" I had called Nestor and the police today but they had nothing new to report. No suspects, no new traces; and apparently nothing had been stolen. The whole thing was a mystery.

And why was Carreidas so sure that Rastapopoulos was responsible for the burglary? Just because Rastapopoulos was an enemy of all of us? I knew my longtime adversary: he was calculating, cruel and irresponsible, but he did not strike me as someone who'd be interested in ancient drug samples or the esoteric lore surrounding them.

"Blistering barnacles!" Captain Haddock had finished his ice cream and wanted to throw the empty cup into the dumpster, but did not manage to open it, so I showed him how to: There was a big pedal on the bottom of those Florentine dumpsters – one had to step on it, and then the top opened like a wide mouth, eating large trash bags or whatever one threw into them. I'd figured it out only when I had seen a local do it.

"Let's wait", Captain Haddock finally said. "There's no hurry to return home."

_Or you're afraid of another adventure_, I added silently, smiling at him.

My cell phone rang, and I picked it up. It was a call from Piotr. "Hi Tintin", he said, "_Come va? Tutto bene? _Have you met Mr Carreidas?"

Hearing his voice reminded me of what we had done together. Our naughty, wonderful little secret. "Well, yes... Listen, there's been a change in plans. Me and Captain Haddock will leave Italy sooner than expected, maybe tomorrow."

"What?"he shouted with genuine surprise. "Why? Weren't you going to stay for two weeks?"

I told him about the burglary, and that Marlinspike Hall was designated a crime scene.

"How awful." He hesitated. "... Then there's not much time. I want to see you. How about tonight?"

My body responded sooner than my brain, sending a pleasantly tingling sensation through my stomach and further below. As if it now automatically associated Piotr with secret indecent delights. _Stop that,_ I told myself. _You're not a horny teenager!_

"Tintin, who is it?" Haddock asked.

"Um... Piotr, I don't know if it's good right now", I said into my cellphone even though I actually wanted to see him again.

For a moment Piotr said nothing; then he replied, "It's Captain Haddock, right? He is jealous, I saw that. All right, I guess you'll have to decide, _carino_. I will respect your choice. Just one thing I want to mention: You live with him, right? You're always together. But me, you see only rarely. Wouldn't it be practical to meet _me_ when the opportunity is there?... I really want to see you." His voice got a bit lower. "There are more things I'd like to show you..."

_Oh Piotr, you have no idea how badly I want you to show me 'more things'._

At least he didn't seem like someone madly in love, and that was perfectly fine with me. He simply wanted to have fun, right? And I wanted the same. How could anything go wrong when we both enjoyed it?

"I'll call you back later", I said, hastily ending the conversation.

Captain Haddock was staring at me. "Him again", he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes", I said, "and I think you shouldn't have a problem with it. I'm an adult. We're not a couple."

"Blistering barnacles", he shouted with a volume that scared a group of pigeons on the sidewalk and they quickly flew away, "but I _do _have a problem with it! Damnit, I don't want it but I can't do anything about it! I _can't_ fix the way I feel!"

A group of Japanese tourists was staring at us, this time paying more attention to Haddock than to the ever-pink Snowy.

I quickly realized I had been wrong to discount his feelings. "I'm sorry", I said. "You're right."

The tourists were gone, and we were standing in the quiet courtyard behind the_ Pegna_ store, alone save for the cat and some pigeons. Captain Haddock hugged me, and for a moment we just stood there in a close embrace, feeling each other's backs through sweaty shirts.

Then the Captain pushed me from him, and with his hands still on my upper arms, regarded me with an intense gaze that I couldn't quite categorize.

"Tintin, lad. I love you."

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE:<strong> I know this isn't a good time, but... I wrote this chapter about a month ago and have had ZERO ideas and inspiration for this story since then. And not much time either. :F So I'm gonna abandon it.

It's hereby officially cancelled.

I'm glad you made it this far :) Thank you, dear readers, for your comments!


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